missmatch

i’m whispering into your grave
“re gur gi tat e”
rational . time flows. out.
eye flows. out.
i’m talking into a dance.
stop.motion.
in.flux abbreviat.e xp.ience
flaps wings over chest over deluge
half moon wings’ tips “th nd f tme”
i’m scraping my core behind mirrors.
spills intuition spills arms. spills
question words’ direction-fall, lust-full, ab-sent
“no am I not” 0h-neg-a-tive
polarity miss/match
i’m watching sand in a vacuum.
color wheel opposing, flash
into a depth. dialllated. in Montreal.
destiny scalding its tongues
smiling .reflection. points
i’m unused books on your desk.
point.illism fragment.s
black ‘knighted ivy league hush’
fall off roof tops; locked;
whip lashed on all 4

rant 0.01

poetry is not a project.
I did not put all of my effort
and hands and joints and blood into it
didn’t formulate for years and years, it is
just something that falls out, an
eyelash on a pillowcase, nobody
knows it’s there unless you really
stare at it long enough
I did not have any direction
like those woman poets talking
about mountains and rain and
how their love drips from their
windowsills and turns to mist
evaporated into their lover’s lungs
complete bullshit vomit-inducing sugar.
I like my metaphors volatile
because they are ejected from myself
as unwanted malignancies, I
don’t swish them around
until they feel right and
let them dribble down my chin.
I have not sat for hours re
working re working re working
what is done is just that
because poetry is purest
the moment it catches fire.